Birth of Venus
by Judah Jones
Summary: There's always a love story, but this is a tale of life. Hear of how the legendary knights were taken from their home as boys. Meet Cailey, the young girl who will someday change our heros lives forever, especially Lancelot's.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own King Arthur.

**Author's Note: **I have a terrible tendency to forget about a story, delete it, and then start again years later. Kind of like with this one. But oh well. This isn't a romance, yet. In fact, I have a rather large King Arthur saga planned that follows two story lines; Cailey and Lancelot. They won't meet until the third story in this series, but I still think it's worth while to read anyways. I've always been curious about the lives of Lancelot and the other knights pre-movie. Cailey's story will be interesting as well.

So read, review, and hopefully enjoy.

* * *

"_I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my ship."_

_-Louisa May Alcott_

452 A.D.

Sarmatia

They rode fast and hard over the Sarmatian soil, and every ear for miles around heard their arrival. All but one. Young Lancelot du Lac, as he would come to be called, trekked the incline from the river, gritting his teeth and hulling a pail of water for the washing along behind him. The crystalline sky overhead mocked the tedium of daily chores. Winter had begun to settle over the village, bringing with it the question of who would be blessed enough to survive the months of frost and hungry bellies that lay ahead. Lancelot had spent the better part of the morning struggling to break the stubborn ice layered over the river's surface, to fill his bucket with the still lively waters below. His hands were chapped from the work. His mood even more so.

For the people of northern Sarmatia, winter was never pleasant. Locked within their hovels, covering cracks in the walls with animal skins and hay to keep out the chill, throughout the duration of the season so as not to have the blood frozen around their heart. Behind closed doors, tensions brewed. It was the time when women proudly carried the imprints of their husband's drunken fists, men withered, and children dropped away in the blink of an eye, taken by sickness and starvation. Their little bodies wasted into promises of a life never to be fulfilled.

Lancelot had survived such a childhood. At fifteen years of age, he would soon be considered a man in his tribe. With the threat of long days imprisoned indoors, with no chance of escape, the young lad would certainly go insane. His place was in the highest branches of the trees, where none of the other boys dared to climb, racing through the fields of sweet meadow grass, diving to the sandy bottoms of the river and collecting pretty stones to take home to his mother and sister, or out in the field with a wooden sword, sparring with the other lads. Lancelot did not belong tucked away in a patched hut. Too many winters he had done just that. He prayed for an adventure to every god he knew and even some he did not. However, Lancelot never intended his prayers to be answered in the way they were.

Dark clouds loomed on the horizon of his passage from childhood to maturity. As he dwelled in the middle place between boyhood and manhood, the riders galloped onwards, each leap bringing them nearer to the unaware Lancelot. For now, he had a pail of water to deliver and the last few days of bearable weather to enjoy.

A young girl, scanning the distance, clapped her hands in delight when her brother's curly mop of hair rose above the hill. She clutched her tattered skirts in one hand and set off. Her little feet skimmed the familiar earth. Her tangled curls, the color of night, like her brother's, whipped behind her in a flag of warning. Lancelot saw her coming. The child's face was alight with innocent excitement.

"Lancelot!" she cried, stumbling up the hill. Gasping for breath, she skidded to a halt before her brother, nearly knocking the bucket from his hands.

"Careful Laleh." Lancelot spoke with an authoritative air he had recently acquired, mimicking his father. Little Laleh overlooked his admonition and threw her arms around his waist. She squeezed as tightly as possible and Lancelot's stoic disposition melted away in her embrace. His sister had always been a free spirit. It was no secret that she idolized Lancelot. She was always on his heels and, though it could be aggravating, Lancelot was at ease when she was near, her safety ensured.

Lancelot could clearly recall the day of her birth, nine years past. He had held the small bundle of puckered flesh in his arms, albeit awkwardly, and marveled at the oddity of the fragile life pressed to his beating heart. That the infant had been formed in the same womb as he was enough to link them together for eternity. They were joined by an umbilical cord, twins born four years apart. When he took a harsh blowing during a sparring session, Laleh cried, and when she stubbed her toe, Lancelot cursed in pain. Of all the children their mother had carried in the recesses of her body, only the two of them had been brought into the world; one that they were bound and determined to survive together.

Lancelot shifted the bucket from his right hand to his left, so that Laleh could wrap her tiny fist around his wrist and lead him home. Her chatter filled his ears like the chirpings of baby birds. He called her his little sparrow, as she flitted through the cruelty of their lives and all of their winters.

"I can carry that if you're tired," Laleh offered, her sprite eyes earnest. Lancelot lifted the heavy bucket higher. It weighed far more than his baby sister. Water sloshed over to nourish the dying grass that not even a flood could revive.

"And who shall carry you, little sparrow?" He grinned crookedly as Laleh jutted her chin forward in defiance. She reached for the pail. More water spilled over when Lancelot pulled it away from her greedy fingers. He knew well enough that, regardless her good intentions, Laleh was nowhere strong enough to bear his burden. He would never ask her to. Lancelot was the oldest. He was the son. As such, the weight of responsibility rested upon his shoulders. So did the curse, as they called it in Sarmatia.

One son from every family was expected to serve Rome for a term of fifteen years. It was considered payment for a debt the Sarmatians had fallen into when their lives were spared during the great wars many years ago. Only too late did they realize that the price for life was far too great. Of course there was the lucky handful of boys who slipped past unnoticed by the Roman officers who came every five years to collect their newest batch of slaves. Lancelot hoped he would be one of those few.

As the siblings breeched the bottom of the hill, Lancelot made a mental list of all the things he would do that winter to keep him occupied. Whittle a new doll for Laleh, polish his father's swords, patch the leaky roof. A dull and dreaded season, but at least there would Kaleda, the Winter Solstice, to look forward to. Laleh had been working on her disguise for months, preparing for the tradition of visiting the other village homes each night of the ten day celebration, to sing wishes of good luck and receive small gifts in return. Of course, Lancelot was too old to participate in such childish events, but Laleh had already promised to share her loot with him if he helped with her costume.

There would be the last feast of the year during Kaleda as well. All of the cattle would be slaughtered and the savory scent of roasting meat would perforate the icy air. Lancelot's stomach rumbled at the very thought. Already his mother was preparing for the feast to come in the fast approaching weeks.

As the two children arrived, the water bucket between them, Helaine peered up from the fire pit she had been slaving over all morning, to greet her children. She pushed the damp hair from her eyes and smiled, her heart warmed by the sight of her little ones.

Lancelot's cheeky grin reminded her that he would not be her little one for much longer. Already he preferred the company of his father, but she was still able to plant a quick kiss of blessing upon his forehead every now and again. _Gods have mercy,_ she prayed silently to herself every night, _and keep my son here._ Unlike Lancelot, she could not overlook the thunder raging in the distance. IT was nearing time for the Romans to arrive. Helaine was agonizingly aware that her firstborn was the perfect age for plucking into the military.

Lancelot dropped his bucket to the ground with a thud, before removing the poker from his mother's hands and prodding the fire. Helaine wiped her hands on her apron, leaving trails of ash in the fabric. Laleh continued to prattle on about everything and anything.

"Child, does your tongue never rest," Helaine sighed, muting her daughter's long-winded spiels.

"She even speaks in her sleep," Lancelot added, shooting a sly glance at his indignant sister. Truth be told, he loved the sound of her voice lulling him to slumber. It spun around his dreams, ensuring that they were always sweet.

Helaine swore that Laleh first began speaking in the womb. During the nine months of pregnancy, she could hear her youngest, and last, baby telling stories. Lancelot used to place his ear to her rounded belly, bite his bottom lip, and try to listen.

Sharing tales was another way the small family passed the long winter months. It was part of their life. Lancelot's favorites were always those of his father's adventures as a knight. He would close his eyes later on, once everyone else was asleep, and pretend he was a great knight as well. His father, Sir Ban, kept his twin swords over the hearth as a token of time served. Lancelot knew that they would be his someday, along with the great responsibility they entailed.

He loved caring for his father's weapons. The blades sang in perfect pitch when he honed them to lethal edges. Their heaviness anchored him to the earth. There was no greater feeling for young Lancelot than that. His father had taught him well in the past two years; the basics of wielding a blade, though just a wooden one, how to track even the smallest animals through the forests, and the rules of survival every man must have under his belt. Sir Ban had prepared his son carefully, making sure Lancelot didn't grow too quickly. There would be plenty of time for him to become a warrior.

Lancelot fell into place, aiding his mother where she needed him, while Laleh proceeded to chase her namesake, a wily sparrow, across the yard. The gleeful cried of a few other children trickled over the peaceful evening. Lancelot stirred the bubbling pot of stew, relishing in the warmth of the smoke wafting against his face. His mind wandered once more to his fantasies, so he did not see the lone rider approach until Laleh's shrill cry pierced the air.

"Papa!" Sure enough, Sir Ban's unmistakable figure materialized. He had been gone on a brief hunt with a handful of other men, a last attempt to bring in winter provisions. Helaine's heart soared and then plummeted as her husband galloped towards them, not slowing until he was directly before them. Her thoughts ran wild. Where were the other men? Why did her husband look so grim? Lancelot also sensed something amiss. He pulled Laleh close to his side and wrapped an arm around her slender shoulders. For once, the girl was deathly silent.

"Ban?" Helaine's voiced all of her concerns through his name, as her husband dismounted. Sir Ban took her work worn hands in his, kissed her chapped knuckles, and looked into her eyes with such desolation she had no doubt what news he carried, even before he spoke the words.

"It is time," he declared mournfully, glancing to his son. Helaine's hands fluttered to her mouth to pin in a desperate cry. She felt the world seeping away and her first extinct was to pull Lancelot close to her and never let him go. Yet she had known since the day of his birth that this moment would come. They were fortunate to have had fifteen years with their boy.

Sir Ban took his wife into his arms. She was a strong woman, but he knew she had limits. He had asked so much of her. They had wed the summer before he was sent out to become a knight himself. Helaine had waited faithfully for fifteen years, just a child then, for his return. Never once did she stray. Since then, she had borne his children and stood by his side in every battle. However, this day was too much.

Lancelot and Laleh watched befuddled as their mother burst into tears and their father stared past the horizon into another place, another time. A terrible understanding blossomed in the cobwebbed corners of Lancelot's mind. He fought bitterly to ignore it. _It is time._ His father's words could only mean one thing. His grip on Laleh tightened until the little girl yelped in protest at his fingers digging into her soft flesh. She peaked up at her brother, wide-eyed and confused, searching for an explanation and only finding emptiness.

Once Helaine's ravished sobs subsided, she unwound herself from her husband's embrace. No one could console her pain. Moving as though the very act was torture, Helaine pried Laleh away from Lancelot's hold. She could not even look at her son yet. She knew that his father would need to speak with him first.

"How soon?" she asked over her shoulder, braving the question.

"Before nightfall." Helaine's breath cut into her lungs. Trying to conceal the tears that still swelled in her deep set eyes, she led Laleh into their hut. The girl's complaints could be heard straight to the Black Sea. Lancelot tried to push them away. He and his father were alone with the truth building between them.

"It is time," Sir Ban repeated. He gestured for his son to follow, before heading in the direction of the village stables, a rundown building full of pack mules. Lancelot trailed behind him mutely with his head bowed. He still struggled against the rising tide of sickening revelation.

Father and son stepped into the foul smelling stables. Lancelot's mind was swept clean when he saw the magnificent beast pawing the compacted ground in the last stall. He had never seen anything so glorious in his life, not even his father's grey compared to the ebony stallion, not much more than a colt, that watched him from the murky shadows with doleful eyes. Lancelot rushed forward, revealing the boy inside of him, and the horse skittered further into the stall.

"Be gentle," his father admonished. Lancelot reached out a tentative hand to the creature and patiently waited for him to poke his snout against the outstretched palm. The stallion's wet nose tickle his wind-bitten skin.

"Where did he come from?" Lancelot asked. Sir Ban chuckled at his son's excitement, forgetting for a moment the purpose of this trip. He had gone through a load of trouble to find the perfect horse for his firstborn. It had to be one that could grow with Lancelot and become a trustworthy companion in battle.

"He is a gift, my boy. He will go with you where we cannot." Sir Ban's words crushed Lancelot's denial. His hand dropped heavily to his side and the horse snorted, now desiring the boy's attention. Lancelot faced his father and was stunned speechless for a second time. There in Sir Ban's hands, were the twin swords Lancelot had coveted for so long. He was holding them out to his son.

"And this is the second gift I offer."

The exchange of weapons from father to son was a pivotal moment in any Sarmatian boy's life. It signified the final crossing into manhood and usually would have not been done for a few years to come. Under the circumstances, Sir Ban had no other choice than to perform the act now, though he wished more than anything it were different. His own father had done much the same with him when he was called to Rome. Sir Ban was not concerned with his son's youth. He knew Lancelot would make a worthy owner of his prized swords. His son had never ceased to make him proud.

However, Lancelot did not move forward to receive his inheritance. How many times had he dreamed of becoming a knight? But as he stared at the blades in his father's arms, all he wished to do was flee. Suddenly, winter did not seem like such a bore. He silently cursed himself for praying to the gods for an adventure. Is this the cruel answer they gave him? Lancelot could deny it no longer. The Romans were coming to collect their debt. He would be taken.

Accepting his unavoidable fate, Lancelot finally took the twin swords from his father's hands. The weapons were nearly too heavy for him. The scabbards clattered to the ground as his arms bent under their weight. Lancelot's cheeks flamed with shame, but Sir Ban could not have been more proud. His son would not rant and rave. No, his son was more of a man than many he'd encountered. Though his burden was near impossible, Lancelot received it without question. There was no need to speak the words out loud.

In understood silence, the two of them saddled the young stallion and strapped Sir Ban's swords to the pack. Lancelot would not use them for some time. Once there was no more to pack, Lancelot returned to petting his horse. Sir Ban came up behind him to lay a strong hand on his son's shoulder.

"Someday you will return. This horse will guide you home when it is time." Lancelot nodded, unsure whether or not to believe his father. Fifteen years seemed like such a long time to the young boy. He held the horse's head between his hands to stare into its sweetly brown orbs. This was to be his only reminder of home, of his family.

"What shall you name him?" Lancelot pondered his father's question for a bit, before the answer sprung to his tongue.

"Majid." The stallion whinnied in consent and bucked under Lancelot's hand. If his father had not been there, he would have leapt onto the horse's back and sped far from here, to hide until the Romans left, but the unconcealed pride in Sir Ban's eyes held him in place. Lancelot was no coward.

Sir Ban squeezed his son's shoulder. Their time together was drawing to an end, but there were so many things Sir Ban had yet to teach the boy, so many lessons Lancelot would now learn from the foul mouths of unkempt soldiers. He had to reconcile with the hope that Lancelot would rise above the slime of the Roman forts.

He remembered when his son first learned to walk. Lancelot had tottered on chubby legs with his mother anxiously crawling behind him. Sir Ban had pulled her to her feet, wrapped a restraining arm around her waist, and held her from the toddler.

"Let him learn. Let him go," Sir Ban had said. Those words haunted him now. Let him learn. Let him go.

"I'm going to come home," Lancelot stated stubbornly. Sir Ban chuckled and rapped his knuckles against his son's unruly curls.

"I don't doubt it." It was the first and last lie he told either of his children. In his heart, he knew that this would be the last he saw of his firstborn, though he hoped beyond reason that he was wrong.

Slants of setting sunlight flooded though the cracks in the stable. The Romans would arrive soon and they would not bother to stay for the night. They would ride through darkness, eager to return to their forts and away from the barbarian civilizations of Sarmatia.

"Go say goodbye to your mother, boy. I'll be along in a minute." After throwing his father a curious glance, Lancelot patted Majid one more time and skittered out of the stables. Sir Ban grinned at the awkwardness of his trot; all gangly limbs and enthusiasm. The Romans would mold him into a refined killing machine soon enough though.

The stable gate swung on rusty hinges. Sir Ban turned to his son's stallion, his heart breaking. He had sent Lancelot ahead, for he did not want his son to see the weakness in his eyes.

"Protect my boy," Sir Ban whispered to Majid. "My only son."

* * *

Mediterranean Sea

Cailey stretched over the bow of _The Apollo_ to let the salty spray of the sea cool her cheeks. It was an unusually warm day for winter, but the Mediterranean had been mild so far this season. The low-hanging sun warmed the little girl's skin and painted her windswept, auburn curls golden. She had stolen a pair of her papa's baggy, patched trousers and tied them around her waist with a line of rope. Her shoulders were bare, but she'd torn a wide strip of fabric from one of her sheets and wrapped it around her chest for the sake of modesty, though there was no one for miles to see her, apart from a handful of rainbow fish and seagulls.

Cailey's clothes were stiff with sea salt. She relished in the friction against her burnished skin. She'd never known her mother, but her papa always said she'd inherited her fair complexion, as opposed to his leathery skin. She burned easily, yet still refused to cover herself from the sun. Her papa would rub cool aloe into her burns at the day's end, while he clucked his tongue and scolded her with a gentle frown.

"You'll burst into flames on day if you continue to soak up so much sun, little Cail," he would say.

"Like naughty Icarus?" she always replied, with a mischievous grin. Her papa had taught her about Greek mythology while they sailed across the Mediterranean. She knew well enough that Icarus hadn't burst into flames, rather his wings melted and he fell from the sky, but she loved to hear her papa retell the story.

"And Daedalus crafted two pairs of wings, one for his son and one for himself, to escape the tower King Minos had locked them away in. He warned Icarus not to fly too close to the sun or sea, but the young fool was giddy with flight. He soared higher and higher and…"

"Higher," Cailey would interrupt, her eyes bright. "Until he realized he had not feather's left. The sun had melted the wax holding them together…"

"Then Icarus fell into the sea, but Daedalus flew to safety." At this point, Cailey's little nose would scrunch up and she'd cock her head to the side, staring intently at her papa.

"You would have caught me, wouldn't you, papa?" She would ask in a trembling voice, just imagining Icarus' great fall. Her papa always pulled her onto his lap and held her close.

"I would never let you fall."

A wave broke against the bow of the boat, pushing _The Apollo _up. Cailey was thrown forward. The churning sea loomed below her for an instant as she began to descend. Closing her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath and prepared to be dragged overboard into the swell, but a firm tug brought her sprawling back onto the deck. Blinking past the sun, Cailey smiled up at her papa. She was drenched by the wave, but safe. He would never let her fall.

Elias pulled his daughter to her feet. His heart, having sped at the sight of her tumbling headfirst over the rail, began to calm. She was all he had in this world; Cailey and his boat. The three of them had been together for eight years, sailing from one place to another.

Elias, while raised in Greece, found that the sea was his true home. His blood was the wild water. He felt unsteady on dry land. There were times when he felt guilty about depriving his only child of a normal childhood, with friends her age and society, but every time they tried to set up home, they could never find peace. It was the sea that called them.

Cailey often thought of the ocean as her surrogate mother. It was the force that had rocked her to sleep as an infant, told her stories in the voice of waves and wind, and loved her unconditionally. She rarely asked about her mother, and for that Elias was grateful. He still felt the sting of his only love's absence. She had died shortly after giving birth to Cailey. Elias never said her name, not even in his head, for the pain it caused. Though he'd told Cailey that she had been beautiful, kind, and free-spirited. He would dream of her collecting seashells, her feet buried in the golden sand, and she would smile at him.

Elias had been a young voyage when he'd met Cailey's mother and swept her away on the sailboat he'd built himself. Since his wife's death, he'd become a doting father. Cailey reminded him of himself as a boy, with her constant questions and wonder. For her sake, he did everything in his power to be a good man. She deserved the world and he would die trying to give it to her.

Cailey climbed nimbly onto her papa's back and twined her arms around his neck. Her warm breath tickled his cheek. Each puff of it was a reassurance. She was real and she was safe. Her little hands combed through his sandy hair, absently grooming as she sometimes did. Cailey squealed giddily as her papa swung her around so that they were facing one another.

"What have I told you about leaning over the edge?" Elias admonished sternly. Cailey shrugged her narrow shoulders and kissed his nose.

"And what have I told you about brushing your hair?" Elias raised an eyebrow and tugged at one of her own tangles. Their serious expressions melted into laughter. Elias spun around, twirling his giggling daughter until she begged him to stop. He set her down, keeping one hand on her arm to steady her. The universe rose and fell under her dizzied gaze, but her papa's solid grip kept her from drifting away.

Together they peered out to the distant horizon, perfectly at peace. No one bothered them here on their boat. Cailey's upbringing was far from conventional. Rather than learn to cook and raise children, her papa had taught her to read Latin, French, and Italian. He taught her about different styles of architecture and art, told her a million historical stories, and discussed past and present philosophers and their ideas. Elias named every species of fish, plant, of bird they saw. By the time she was five, Cailey could map out most of the western hemisphere and determine which direction the wind was blowing. She didn't always understand her papa's lessons, but she soaked in all that she could. Every night they read together from the treasure trove of books he kept safely under their bed. He didn't know, but sometimes she snuck above deck and read by moonlight while he slept.

The only household chore Cailey had any skill at was sewing, but only because she often helped mend the sails. Elias teased her about how terrible of a wife she'd make someday, but Cailey had no intention of taking a husband. She planned to spend the rest of her life traveling the world with her papa. She couldn't imagine doing anything else.

"Don't you want to fall in love?" Elias asked her once.

"I love you," she replied, and placed a hand over his heart. "No one else will fit here." A part of him hoped she would stay with him forever, but he also wanted her to find the love he'd found with her mother. He knew she would grow up to be just as beautiful as his wife had been. Already she had the same almond shaped eyes, a perfect shade of olive, and lips like sculpted rose petals. Sometimes he called her Aphrodite.

Elias fetched an apple from his pocket and proceeded to slice the soft fruit with a slim knife. He gave a slice to his daughter and popped the second into his mouth. Apples were their favorite. Cailey sucked on her slice, savoring the bittersweet juices. They wouldn't have many more apples until spring arrived and then they would dock and reload on supplies.

Sailing in the spring was what she loved best. The winter's were generally too cold and Elias insisted she stay below to keep from falling ill, but in the spring he would let her dive into the water on calm days where he knew it was safe. She could swim before she could walk.

Elias handed her a second slice of apple, though she was still chewing the first. He noticed that her brow was creased in consternation.

"What has you so wrinkled? You look like an old maid."

"There's a cloud." Elias followed the line of her pointed finger and, sure enough, one lone cloud stretched out in the distance, forebodingly dark in the otherwise clear sky. The tide was pushing them straight into the sudden storm. Wrapping the remainders of their apple in a bundle of fabric, Elias turned Cailey by the shoulders, towards the hole in the deck.

"Go below," he ordered. It was always a mystery how these storms would be. The cloud might dissipate before they reached it or blow them out of the water. The sea was just as perilous as it was peaceful.

Cailey pouted, but did not argue as her papa lowered her down into the cramped depths of the boat. She clung to the rope ladder briefly and blinked up at him, trying to memorize the planes of his familiar face like she did every time they were separated, even if it was for just a moment. Positive that she could paint an exact replica of her papa with her eyes closed, she slipped the rest of the way into the belly of the sailboat.

Lost in darkness, Cailey curled onto their bunk and let the waves lull her into gentle wanderings. She was fast asleep by the time Elias joined her. They had missed the storm after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **So that you know, I don't own King Arthur.

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_A crow is no whiter for being washed._

_-French proverb_

Sarmatia

Snow had begun to fall lightly, dusting the remote Sarmatian village. Lancelot hadn't gone home as his father ordered. The moment their hut had come into view, his mother's figure just a slip of light in the doorway, he had fled. Lancelot ran until he reached the river. He climbed one of the neighboring ancient trees, whose roots ran so deep they spread beneath the rushing waters.

He lost track of time as he watched the ships of ice break away from the bank and drift downstream. A part of him was determined to climb aboard one to those frozen vessels and sail as far as the river would take him, but the weight of his father's shorts anchored him to reality.

How was he to face his mother? And Laleh? The thought of saying goodbye to his little sparrow brought tears to his eyes. They fell faster than Lancelot could wipe them away. They froze to his cheeks. He'd never been so ashamed of himself before. They deserved a goodbye, the smallest token of closure, but he couldn't bring himself to descend from his perch. Perhaps they would find him here with his arms wound around the sturdy trunk of his favorite trees and glacial tears in his eyelashes. His father would be shamed, the villagers would tell the tragic tale of the cowardly boy who ran, and Laleh would love him regardless.

For the first time in his life, Lancelot fully realized what he had always known deep down inside, that he did not want to leave. He would embrace the dull winter with open arms if it meant one more year with his family. Peering at his home, the land which birthed him, Lancelot understood the gleam in his father's eyes every time he spoke of Sarmatia with pride, though all they had were a handful of hovels and wretches. He could feel the heartbeat of his country, inexplicably tied to his own.

Lancelot would have traded all of the adventures in the world to stay and whittle dolls for Laleh until the day he died. He felt younger than his years; frightened and alone. _I must be brave, _he repeated over and over again in his mind, but the mantra brought no ease to his troubled spirit. He longed to spread his arms and fly into the cold, grey sky. Closing his eyes, Lancelot felt his body become feather light. His center of gravity crumbled and, for a brief and beautiful moment, he thought he was taking flight, when a familiar voice brought him down. He would relinquish his freedom a thousand times over for that voice.

"Lancelot?" Laleh halted at the base of the tree, knowing where she'd find him. She craned her head back and, sure enough, saw her brother balanced precariously on the edge of one of the stronger limbs with his arms outstretched. He was far away and it terrified her. Laleh didn't understand what had happened to upset everyone, but she knew her brother was hurting. Reaching out for the limbs closest to the ground, Laleh began the perilous climb to the top. Her round, little face scrunched in concentration. She'd never tried to go so high.

"Lancelot?" She ground out his name again through gritted teeth. Already her arms had begun to tremble from the exertion of lugging her body weight, though not very heavy, through the thick atmosphere. Horrified, Laleh felt her foot slip on a slick branch. Her fingers furled into her palms as she fell, leaving her stomach somewhere far overhead.

Lancelot moved faster than anyone would have ever thought possible for the ungainly boy. Their eyes locked for an interminable second of terror. Laleh couldn't scream, but her lips formed the unmistakable shape of his name. Lancelot hung in the void between life and death as he swung forward, without wasting time to think his actions through. His legs hooked around his branch and the world flipped upside down as he threw himself towards his sister. Just barely, his hand caught her wrist. They dangled like that, rocked gently by the wind. Lancelot summoned all of the strength in his body and curled his torso upwards, never letting his hold on Laleh lessen. She kicked at the trunk, climbing with just her feet.

With a giant tug, Lancelot brought Laleh to his side, so that she hung folded over at the waist upon the branch. After straightening her out and calming his racing heart, Lancelot clasped her face between his palms. He'd thought he'd lost her for a moment.

"You fool!" he cried. "What possessed you to be so reckless?"

"You're sad." She traced a path of tearstains down his boyish cheeks in wonder. Her dark eyes overflowed with shared sorrow. His torment was a physical presence searing her breast.

Lancelot turned away from her for the first time in his life. He did not know what to tell her to make her understand. She had risked her life just to be with him, to comfort him, and now he had to tell her that he would be leaving for fifteen long years. Perhaps forever. How could he be expected to break her heart like that? When she had slipped, and he saw the space stretching between them, Lancelot felt the reality of what it would be like without her. Always lost and just out of reach.

Laleh patted his clenched fist. She stroked the throbbing veins of his clenched hands with light touches.

"Lancelot, why is everyone crying?" Her innocent question tore at his heart. What to say? What to say? He said nothing. This was his cowardice, his inability to tell her the truth.

"Mama says you are to go away for awhile, but you will come home, won't you?" Silence. "Lancelot?" The catch in her voice broke him completely. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a child. Laleh pulled him into her. She whispered comforting words her mother had used for her time and time again.

"I do not want to go," Lancelot murmured mournfully.

"I will go instead, if you are afraid of being alone." Lancelot surfaced from his sorrow to look at his baby sister. It was not solitude that frightened him, but a life without her, without his mother and father, and his home. Laleh would follow him anywhere, always a constant shadow, but this was a journey she could not share with him. Without a moment's doubt, she would relieve his burden, but Lancelot, of course, would never ask her to.

"Then would be your companion, little sparrow?" he whispered. Laleh tapped her chest, over her heart.

"You are always here," she stated sincerely. Laleh pressed her free hand over his heart. "And I am here. Wherever you go, and for however long, I will love you."

In that moment, Laleh was not a child, but Lancelot was. He knew her words were true, as he felt her merged with his own soul, along with everyone and everything he loved. Yet it did not soothe the seething emotions within him.

Laleh was convinced he would return someday. He could see the conviction in her trusting gaze. Never had he failed her before, but in this, she expected too much. She would grow, marry a man free of the bond Lancelot was forced to pay, and raise a family, perhaps a son and daughter such as themselves. Through all of this, he would be absent and she would forget him as time eroded her childhood memories. Yet he knew she would be with him, even if he begged for the ghost of her to leave him be.

So, he would not say goodbye after all. Laleh didn't believe this was a farewell, and in a different way he didn't either. Snow dusted their dark lashes. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon. From below, the sound of horse's hooves reached their ears. Laleh held a hand over her eyes to peer through the setting sun. She leaned into the day's end. Lancelot clutched a fistful of her dress as she leaned further forward, hungrily searching for the source of the noise.

"Riders, Lancelot!" she cried, turning her luminescent orbs to him. He cringed from the excited glee emanating from her. Laleh squinted. Her head throbbed from the effort of discerning details from such a distance. A crease cut into her brow and her lips fell into a frown.

"Roman, I think. Their capes are red. Oh Lancelot!" Laleh clapped her hands over her mouth. Suddenly, she understood. The younger boys she played with sometimes told her stories of the Romans coming to steal away their older brothers. She hadn't believed them. She'd never seen anyone other than her fellow Sarmatians, but her initial joy at the prospect of company, and so close to winter, vanished.

"You are not going with _them, _are you?" Laleh peered up at her brother hopefully. She had nightmares of men dressed in red capes and boots made of black stone. When she thought of Rome, it was a ghastly image the sprung to her mind, based on the tales she'd heard when no one thought she was listening.

Laleh had thought Lancelot was to go hunting with the other men, which he'd never done, and he was simply afraid of making a fool of himself, which he had done plenty of times. She had thought he was to go study with one of the wise men in another village. But to Rome? The thought had not crossed her mind till now.

"Aye, I am to go with them," Lancelot stated tonelessly. A pain unlike any she had ever felt before tore through her. Laleh twisted her skirts between her numb fingers. Fifteen years, she knew, was the span of time he would be gone. The years arced before her, vast and infinite. Yet her faith in him remained unwavering. _Lancelot will come back, no matter how far, no matter how long, he goes._

Clasping his hand in hers, she gave him a good squeeze. He felt the brittle bones webbing beneath her skin and felt the flush of guilt, knowing that she may very well starve this winter. It was a risk all of the faced, but at least Laleh would have his share of food this year, if she didn't give it to stray animals like she usually did. He squeezed her hand in return.

Consuming all of the breath his lungs could carry, Lancelot cast aside the last of his tears and buried his fears as best he could.

"Come Laleh, we cannot hide forever."

"No, I suppose we can't."

Lancelot swung over the branch before her, watching attentively as she clambered down overhead. Her skirts were not made for climbing, but every time she began to slip, he steadied her. His feet pounded into the ground. Laleh let herself fall through the icy air into his outstretched arms. He set her down, brushed aside a loose strand of hair, and kissed her forehead.

"Don't forget me, little sparrow. Promise you won't." Lancelot needed to have her word now, for surely the would have little time for such sentiments later. Already the Romans could be heard down in the village.

"Of course I won't forget you!" Laleh yelped indignantly.

"Just promise."

"Oh Lancelot, don't-"

"Please Laleh." His voice cracked. She softened, exhaled, and threw her arms around his waist. Her head barely reached his belly button.

"I won't ever, ever, ever forget. I will tell stories about you every night to remember. I promise."

Lancelot would have to be satisfied with that. He tucked it away. Just like his father's swords and Majid, it would sustain him through the years to come. A promise and an inheritance. Together, the two of them trekked along the path they had already travelled once before that day.

* * *

Helaine waited while the Romans collected the villagers. She prayed that Lancelot had run, for he should have returned home from the stable long ago. Perhaps, perhaps he could be free. Sir Ban unknotted her clenched fists gently. The men in their ornate armor, with hard faces and blank eyes, made Helaine sick with dread. Who would love her son? Surely not these cold monsters. Who would care for him if he fell ill, if his heart was broken?

"He's just a child," Helaine whispered, even though the Romans couldn't understand their native tongue.

"Do not let him hear you say that," Sir Ban jested, half-heartedly. Lancelot's pride would not take too kindly to his mother's words, no matter their truth. Her husband's teasing didn't provoke the smile from her that it usually would have. Instead, Helaine cast him a disparaging glance, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. She would not shame her son by sobbing as he left, but tonight the floodgates would open wide.

The other women nodded their heads respectfully as they passed, mourning with her. None of their boys were old enough to be taken, or they already had been. Many of them were buried, just infants in the frozen ground, but Helaine was jealous of their good fortune. She loathed their pitied stares and unspoken condolences. She cast her eyes to the horizon, breeching the Heavens with her unreadable gaze.

All around the Romans tromped like somber ghosts. They cut remarkable shapes in the Sarmatian village, where the majority of the men were hobbled and the women work-worn. Young ones peered at the intruders from behind their mothers' skirts with wide eyes full of wonder. Helaine remembered the day when she had been like those children. The first time she had crossed paths with the Romans was the day they took her husband. They had only been married for three days. The Romans had taken her youth, her belief in justice. Now they had come for her son. An anger that she had never felt before rose through her.

Helaine felt like the child wife she'd been before, utterly helpless, yet she kept her head high and proud. They could take her husband, fifteen years of their life together, and her only son. She would not give them her pride.

When Lancelot and Laleh finally returned, the soldiers had finished nourishing their steeds. Silently, Sir Ban slipped away to the stables, leaving Helaine to greet their son for the last time. She did not welcome him into her arms or give way to hysteria.

Laleh raced to her mother, casting wary glances at the waiting Romans as she passed them. Lancelot strode forward at a more dignified pace, but his gangly limbs still swung with clumsy adolescence. He would grow into a graceful man. Helaine knew in her mother's heart. He would weasel his way into the affections of many women, perhaps their beds as well, and it frightened her that no one would teach him to love. His awkwardness would fade, but what sort of man could her son become in the company of such foreign and bloodthirsty heathens?

Lancelot halted a foot or so away from his mother. They exchanged no words, just understood silence. Helaine longed to reach out to him, kiss his smooth cheeks one more time. How many summers until they would be coated in stubble? She wanted to sing him the lullabies she'd made up herself when he was still just a babe. His bright smile had always warmed her soul and pushed aside the bitterness of their dreary lives.

_Gods, my son, my first and only boy. Let somebody love him, _she prayed. Lancelot clasped her arm briefly. She saw the tremor of fevered terror in his eyes, though he tried so hard to conceal his pain from her. Helaine knew. She always knew. Lancelot was a sliver of her soul, made of her flesh and her blood. She had lost so many children over the years, unable to carry them to full term. Yet Lancelot, her first, had been strong enough to survive. She could only hope he still was.

When his familiar hand slipped away, Helaine was left bereft. She tucked Laleh under her arm possessively. The small girl folded into her mother as she studied the strange boy standing before them. Lancelot looked nothing like the brother she had followed faithfully all of her life.

"I will make you proud," Lancelot stated, with all of the conviction in the world. His voice trembled. Helaine's heart did as well. Losing her resolve, she pulled him into her. Lancelot was rigid in her stifling embrace, not willing to be made a full of in front of the soldiers who were to be his masters, but the comforting scent of her, sweat and meadow grass, soon brushed away any thoughts of dignity. He molded to her shape, the one from which he was created. Her hair tickled his face.

"You have always made me proud," Helaine murmured into his ear, before parting. A Roman horse snorted impatiently and pranced towards them.

"We are prepared to depart," the formidable soldier declared. His voice was not kind, nor was it cruel. He was a man doing his duty to God and country, but to the Sarmatians he was a monster. His words brooked no room for argument, however.

Lancelot scanned the gathering congregation of his clansmen. Each of them nodded in a muffled gesture of support. They were with him. Lancelot squared his shoulders as his father emerged from the stables with the saddled Majid. He passed the reigns to Lancelot. Leaving his spirit on the Sarmatian soul, Lancelot swung onto the young stallion's back. Even high above them all, he felt miniscule. Barking orders in Latin, the soldiers spun their glistening mounts, kicking up a wave of dirt onto the villagers, and began to trot.

Lancelot prepared to follow, when Laleh's cry halted him. She tugged free from Helaine's grip and stumbled to her brother. Gasping for breath, she dug into her pockets and retrieved a little wooden trinket. It was a crude replica of a sparrow that she had been carving for him, as a gift for Kaleda. The wooden creature was not quite completed, but Laleh held it up to him regardless.

"I am coming with you," she called up to him. Lancelot took the little sparrow into his shaking hands. She would always be with him.

"Don't fall behind, lad," one of the soldiers ordered. Tucking the bird into his tunic, Lancelot wheeled Majid away from his village and Laleh. He barely heard his father's roar over the pounding of hooves.

"RUS!" Sir Ban raised his fist into the air as the other villagers took up their ancestor's battle cry. Helaine's womb wept as her son grew smaller and smaller in the distance. A little sparrow fell to her knees and lost the will to fly or chirp. Lancelot did not see. He did not look back.

* * *

Ostia Antica, Rome

Cailey chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully as she squinted against the sun with a pebble in her hand. She squished the sand between her toes as the frothy waves tickled her bare feet. The hem of her cloak was soaked through, but she was focused so intently on her current goal that she didn't notice, or more likely didn't care. Cailey tossed the smooth pebble, dark with white ridges, from one hand to the other as she tested its weight. Feather light, but substantial enough.

She inhaled deeply as the tide rushed forward and exhaled when the waves retreated. At the perfect time, she tossed the pebble into the sea. The stone sank beneath the surface and Cailey growled irately. All morning she had been practicing, trying to make the stones ride the waves like her papa could. She mimicked his every move, yet every single pebble, sea shell, and one unlucky crab, proved less than buoyant. Gritting her teeth, Cailey began searching for a new rock.

They had docked just before daybreak in Ostia Antica to restock and restore. The stern needed a fresh coat of paint and the backstays were growing thin. Not to mention, Cailey had finished off the last apple two weeks ago and their water was all gone. She'd been drinking stale brew for days and her stomach was displeased by the mixture. Regardless, Cailey would rather have stayed out at sea, far from the bustling Roman port.

Elias had left her early that morning to collect what they needed, leaving Cailey to occupy herself. At first she'd watched the other sailors going about their chores. The way they moved, with agility and precision, entranced her. It was as though they were performing a secret dance she could never learn. Her legs were unsteady on the motionless ground.

She liked the sailors though, especially the dark-skinned one from the west. She liked to say his name; Bazza. It made her giggle. He had allowed her to help him untangle the netting. It was a menial task, but his stories entertained her. He spoke of unimaginable places that not even she had seen yet; kings with palaces of ivory and gold and hundreds of wives, giant beasts with pointed husks and long trunks that swept the ground, and diamonds that grew from the soil instead of barley and corn.

"It sounds wonderful." Cailey had sighed dreamily, her mind wandering to the adventures she and her papa could have in such places. Bazza laughed, the sound deep and soulful.

"Ah, but there is much evil as well. There are man-eating tribes who make pretty jewelry from the bones of their meals, vicious animals that steal babies from their beds, and witches who curse your fields and steal your spirit in the night."

Cailey had pondered the two aspects of Bazza's homeland, weighing them against each other. At last, she had set down the net, which her fingers had been worrying more knots into than out of, and met Bazza's pitch black eyes.

"Do you think the man-eaters would make me a bracelet?" she had asked, sincerely. Bazza just laughed again.

She wished he was still here to keep her company, but most of the sailors were gone to the wine houses now. Dusk was heavy upon them and her papa had not returned. Panic was beginning to gnaw at Cailey.

As another of her stones sank, Cailey decided to try again some other day. She wiped the sand from her hands onto her shirt and scoured the beach for her sandals. Her papa wouldn't be pleased if she lost another pair. Her tiny feet were numb with cold and her skin was pink and wrinkled from soaking in the salty water. Her papa insisted she wear shoes and skirts, proper clothes he called them, when they were at port. Occasionally though, he still let her dress like a boy.

Cailey found the discarded sandals caught in a nest of seaweed on the shore. She slipped them on quickly and began to pace the beach, checking the time with the sun's progress. Dark red shadows bled into the serene sea. Cailey's blood simmered. She loathed being stuck in one place for so long. Every back and forth step brought the same scenery, the same destination.

Her restlessness outweighed her persistent worry and the promise she had made to remain with the boat. Tossing one brief glance at their sailing home tied to the dock, Cailey clambered onto the dock and started off into the city. Maybe she could find Bazza and the other sailors. Or even her papa.

She had never set foot in such a boisterous place as the populous Roman port, at least not alone. Leaving the calm of the ocean behind, Cailey seemed to leap headfirst into a new universe, all together invigorating and impossible. She picked up her damp skirts, mimicking the flustered women weaving through the crowd, to keep the hem from collecting mud and sewage, though they were already soaked.

Cailey stumbled forward, trying to navigate in the hustle, with the entire city dashing about. She was overwhelmed by the noise and color; flashes of elaborate scarves and the curious squawk of a fowl locked inside a vendor's cage. She'd been to much grander cities than this before, but never without her papa to guide her through the confusing commotion. Everyone appeared to know where they were going and Cailey found herself swept away with the tide. Suddenly, she wished she was tucked away in the hull of their boat with a good book, instead of lost on this spur of the moment crusade. Her papa often chastised her for acting too quickly, without a moment of thought beforehand.

Cailey was slammed sideways. She pressed herself close against a brick building. Her eyes watered from the upturned dirt and fumes of human filth. It was moments such as these that reminded her of her disdain for civilization. Too many bodies jostling over one another. The stench of sweat and dung overpowered that of the nearby sea.

Cailey watched the chaos from her crevice of the wall unnoticed. It was rare that she witnessed the daily interactions of people; the way women talked with each other behind their hands and the men stole glances at them. She saw a mother ruffle her infant's fine hair absently while haggling over the price of the day's fish and wondered if her mother had every made a similar motion. Her papa thought she needed the company of other people, but she was content without them. To her, they were fascinating, sometimes humorous, subjects to study, but they were far removed from her. She never felt like she belonged with them.

Her eyes wandered to a fruit vendor close by, who was waving golden pairs in the air. Behind his back, a dirty urchin boy was smuggling a handful of grapes into his pockets. Nervously his eyes darted from side to side. They spotted Cailey. He raised a finger to his lips and winked. Cailey knew the punishment for theft in Rome was the loss of a left hand. She didn't know the boy, but she could see that he was only perhaps a year or two older than her, and just a pile of skin and bones.

Once he was done filling his pockets, the boy skipped lithely towards her. He blended in perfectly with all of the other orphaned children polluting the city. Cailey debated on whether she should flee before he reached her, but the opportunity swiftly slipped past. Already the boy was standing at her side, with an offering of stolen grapes in his outstretched palm. His cheeky grin revealed two missing front teeth. Cailey peered at the grapes hesitantly. She was hungry, but if they were caught with stolen goods…

"I didn't poison 'em, if that's what you think," the boy squawked, his voice rough around the edges, though still far from puberty. Cailey took a single grape and rolled it between her fingers. She sunk her teeth through the thin skin and cringed at the bitter flavor. The boy laughed at her scrunched face. He popped a grape into his own mouth and swallowed it whole. His burning stomach was only satisfied for a moment. The dull ache of hunger never left him.

"I haven't seen you 'round here afore. Got a name?"

"Cailey," she whispered. She peered down at her dirty feet and suddenly wished she'd thought to wash them before putting on her sandals again.

"Cailey," the boy repeated. "That's nice. You ever seen a 'Gyptian before? They bring these big snakes o'er with 'em sometimes. Like cobras, you know? They're nasty, those buggers. Friend o' mine got bit just last year and started shaking like crazy until he just keeled right over and died there in the street."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Don't be." The boy waved away her murmured condolences and devoured another handful of grapes. "He was a bit of an idiot anyhow."

The boy stepped closer. Cailey backed away from the stale stench of him. She wasn't used to being so near anyone other than her papa. The boy's pinched face was so close that she could have counted the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sure you're not from 'ere. You looks too lost, all wide-eyed like the slaves when they first get 'ere."

"Slaves?" Cailey chirped.

"Sure, loads of 'em from all over. Most of 'em got dark skin, like they been rolling 'round in the mud, but it don't ever wash off. O'course some of 'em is white too, prisoners and such."

Cailey reeled at the light manner in which he spoke of the slaves. Did the boy have no heart? He seemed to sense her discomfort and hurriedly changed the subject.

"Oi, my mam must be giving me a whipping from the grave right now. 'Ere I am rambling about slaves an' you don't even know my name!" The boy stuck out his grimy hand and Cailey took it reluctantly. "They call me Wicek," he declared proudly, as though his name was a badge of honor.

When their handshake ended, she could still feel the stickiness of his skin on her palm. She wanted to run back to the safe haven of her ship and the sea, but the city continued to swirl around her in a blustering storm. Wicek, his powers of observation sharpened by years of living on the street, noticed her darting eyes and puckered lips. She was a pretty, little thing. He'd already dabbled with a few of the harlots around port. Many of them enjoyed toying with the younger boys when business was slow or they felt the need to dominate rather than be dominated.

For a moment, Wicek debated whether or not to take her to the secret place he spent with less reputable veterans, but quickly brushed the idea away. She was just a baby, sweet and scared. He wrapped his lanky arm around her shoulders, overlooking the way she flinched at his touch.

"C'mon, girls like you shouldn't be alone this late. Where're you tryin' to go?"

"The docks." Wicek tossed her a sideways glance. She didn't look like one of the sailor's brats, he romped with most of them, yet she didn't speak with the cumbersome dialect like most foreigners. He found her certainly curious. Taking her hand in his, Wicek proceeded to drag the girl towards the docks from whence she had come not too long ago. He could have made it there blindfolded.

Cailey only half-listened to his exuberant chatter. She liked the brusque cadence of his uneducated syllables. It reminded her of the waves cutting against the rocks. Her thoughts drifted to her papa and the hope that he would be waiting for her at the boat; flustered and angry at her for disregarding his orders, but there nonetheless. She'd had enough of dry land for one day.

As the final tendrils of daylight snaked away to make room for night, Wicek's eyes automatically adjusted to the shadows. He was no friend of the dark. He knew it was a tricky fiend that cloaked the villains who prowled the city at night. Normally, Wicek would have already found a secluded corner to curl up in until dawn. He was prepared to leave the girl to find her own way, but she was such a pretty, little thing. Where they were going wasn't far.

Wicek fell silent as he led Cailey through a narrow alley. At the end, she could see the sparkle of the moonlit sea. Her fears eased. _Home_, she thought. Wicek squeezed her hand and came to a halt.

"You can make it from 'ere, alright?" Cailey nodded, her eyes drawn past him to the little sailboat bobbing in the wake of the grand ships. She took a step forward, only to be stopped by Wicek. He grabbed her face between his cracked hands and stole a swift kiss, taking his payment.

"Don't get yerself lost." Wicek chuckled as he retreated, a cocky grin stretching across his lips. Cailey clasped a hand over her mouth. Her cheeks flamed. The boy had tasted like sour, stolen grapes.

Cailey spun around quickly. All she wanted was to be with her papa again, in a place she knew was safe. No starving urchin boys or bustling market places. Her sandals caught on lose cobblestones as she raced to the end of the alleyway. She stretched out her hands to catch the silver moonlight, before a dark figure stepped into her path.

Cailey stumbled backwards. A finely dressed man stood in her way. His eyes gleamed. Cailey cowered away, but the man caught a fistful of her auburn curls. She yelped as he pulled her towards him. Where had he come from? A ghost, a demon, waiting in the twilight for a pretty, young victim to fall into his clutches.

"Where are you going, little one?" he muttered. His words slurred together drunkenly. He let the silky threads of her hair slip through his fingers.

The man's gaze flicked to the sound of pattering footsteps. Cailey's heart skipped a beat in relief at the sight of Wicek's dirty face. However, the way he ducked his head as he skidded to a stop beside her, and his refusal to meet her eyes, made Cailey feel even more alone than before.

"Where's my coin?" Wicek asked, sticking out his greedy hand. The man barely registered the lad. He was too intently examining his prize. Cailey cringed as he tipped her chin upwards.

"Take your stench elsewhere, boy," the man grumbled. "I have business to attend to." Wicek's temper flared.

"We had a deal, Alberic!" Those few words seared Cailey's ears. She had been tricked! Hadn't her papa taught her better than this? But no, she had let the sly urchin, with his gap-toothed grin, escort her to the very pits of Hell. Cailey cursed her own naivety.

Wicek caught a glimpse of her terror stricken expression from the corner of his eye and guilt began to simmer beneath his anger. He had served men such as Janus before for nearly a year. All of them were wealthy men, bored with their wives, and too politically prominent to be seen chasing common skirts. To protect their image they hired orphaned scum like Wicek to deliver their desires for a coin. Alberic was the most notorious patron. Most of the other boys refused to do business with him, for his tastes were even despicable to them, the lowliest of street dwellers. It was well known that Alberic preferred children, male or female.

When he had first approached Wicek earlier that day, the boy's first instinct was to refuse. However, it had been so long since he'd had a decent meal and he feared his body would begin feeding upon itself son. He feared he would become just another corpse in the gutter. So he had taken the job, because Alberic was known to pay better than any of the others. Only too late did he realize that the man never intended to give him as much as a silver thread from his robes.

Driven by fury, Wicek wrenched Cailey from the seedy man's grasp. If he wasn't going to pay, then Wicek wouldn't let him have the girl. He liked her too much to betray her for nothing. He felt the small girl trembling beneath his fingers. Before Wicek could so much as take one step forward, he found himself sprawled on the ground.

Alberic swatted the pitiful creature down with a single swipe. Cailey, finding her sense at last, lashed out as he dragged her back to him. A scream died on the tip of her tongue as Alberic cupped a rough hand over her lips and reared back his booted foot into Wicek's ribs. A sickening crunch echoed between them, drowned out quickly by the boy's cry of pain.

"I am not obliged to keep deals with motherless bastards," Alberic snarled. "Remember your place, boy, before someone else decides to remind you."

Wicek scuttled away from Janus' ominous boot as it rose once more. The man laughed cruelly at his cowardice, while Cailey continued to squirm against him. Her hot, panicked breath was trapped against his palm. Alberic dismissed the boy from his mind and focused once more on his prize.

"Don't fret, dear," Alberic hissed, as he turned away from Wicek. "I'll be kind enough to kill you after."

Together, they disappeared into the abysmal shadows, but Wicek could still hear Cailey's pleading whimpers. Pressing his hands to his ears to shield himself from the sound, Wicek crawled to his feet, ignoring the sharp pains that jarred through his body, and fled in the direction of the docks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Nope, still don't own King Arthur.

* * *

"_The truth is rarely pure and never simple."_

_-Oscar Wilde_

Sarmatia

Lancelot, having lived furthest to the north, was the first taken. In the weeks that followed many others joined. Silently, Lancelot watched as each of them was torn from their homes. His heart ached with the flood of memories each scene unleashed. It was worse for him, for he witnessed it all.

There was the freckle-faced Lamorak; the same age as Lancelot, with a fiery temperament to match his unruly mop of red curls. He was an orphan, raised by his village, and given scraps from their tables when they could be spared. Lancelot soon found he had little in common with the boy. Lamorak looked forward to serving Rome. He had nothing for him in Sarmatia; no family, no true home.

Lancelot understood the next lad better. Galahad was a runty thing, somewhere between the ages of eleven or twelve. Two of the soldiers had ripped him from his mother's arms, while the third held a sword to his father's throat. Lancelot had seen the boy reach desperately for his mother as the Romans dragged him away. Galahad's bright blue eyes were always red-rimmed from crying. Lancelot could not sleep for the boy's pitiful whimpers kept him up, along with Lamorak's snores. More than once, Lancelot had reached out to touch Galahad's shaking shoulder, but each time he rolled back over onto his other side and buried his head in his arms instead, trying to block out the sound.

Gawain was not such a coward. When the fair-haired boy joined their ranks, he quickly took Galahad under his wings. The older boy reminded Lancelot of a lion with his mane of golden braids framing a sympathetic face. He liked Gawain reasonably well, but shied from his kindness.

Then there came Bors. Lancelot admired him from the beginning. He was a rotund boy with a red face and swift fists. When the Romans came for him, he hadn't hesitated to let his thoughts be known. Lancelot couldn't help but grin, through the situations was far from a laughing matter, when the flamboyant lad unleashed a flurry of foul-mouthed names and curses. Bors was the oldest of them yet, at eighteen. Beneath all of his noise, Lancelot sensed an admirable spirit.

At the next village, a pair of young ones was added. Lionel and Percival were twins, but as different as day and night. Lionell was reserved and uncannily wise for his thirteen summers. Whereas Percival knew not when to keep his mouth shut. His flighty voice grated on all of their nerves, and Lancelot was painfully reminded of Laleh's endless chatter. Though he enjoyed Lionel's passive companionship, as it soothed his troubled mind, but the twins were rarely apart from one another, and it wasn't worth putting up with the one to be with the other.

Upon the next morning, they met Dagonet waiting on the outskirts of his village with just a bundle of cloth under his arm. He was the same age as Bors, eighteen summers, and at first the other boys assumed he was mute until Bors finally instigated a word or two from him. They soon learned that Dagonet was mildly competent in the area of healing. When Percival stumbled and cracked his wrist, it was Dagonet who took the time to bandage the younger boy's arm, while the soldiers pressed on.

Then there was the newest member of the group and by far the most mysterious. They had plucked Tristan from a desolate village surrounded by barren fields and the carcasses of starved cattle. His mother was buried with more than half of the town's population in the cemetery and his father was an embittered man. Like Lancelot's, he had also served as a knight, but he had not overcome his servitude as gracefully as Sir Ban.

Lancelot was no fool. He understood that the scars that peaked from the folds of Tristan's threadbare tunic were not from harmless sparring. At first, Lancelot was inclined to sympathize with the scrawny lad, who was much smaller than him, though he was a full year older, but Tristan isolated himself from the rest of the group. When they all curled together at night to keep warm, Tristan shivered in the cold somewhere across the campsite. He jumped at the slightest sound and seemed to prefer the company of woodland creatures to that of the other boys. He was twitchy, always moving and on edge, but soft spoken. Yet there was something in the glint of his amber eyes that unnerved Lancelot. Something feral.

Together they made an incompatible mix of cultures, personalities, and backgrounds. Yet each of them knew they would be expected to serve, live, and perhaps die with one another. It was an unspoken acknowledgement that shakily bound them together. Each time a new member was added, the others accepted him with a nod. Some of them were more at ease with their fate, such as Lamorak and Dagonet. Some fought the soldiers, like Bors, and then there were the ones who cried shamelessly, as Galahad did.

Lancelot studied each of them from a distance. He refused to come to close to any of them, but knew better to ignore them as he sometimes wished to do. Someday he would need these boys to fight by his side. His father had always spoken of his fellow knights with unconcealed admiration. They had been his brothers in arms, and his brothers in life. Lancelot doubted that he would ever love this rag tag bunch quite as much as that, but he understood their necessity in his life.

They trudged through the blustery winter day in pairs. Lancelot found himself riding beside Lamorak, who was on foot. Only Lancelot, Gawain, and Bors were fortunate enough to have a horse of their own. Lionel and Percival took turns riding their sturdy mule, and all of the others fought to keep up on frost-bitten feet. Gawain often let Galahad ride his magnificent spotted mare when it seemed the younger lad would drop dead from exhaustion.

Commander Cletes, a war-hardened Roman with a lump of coal where his heart might once have been and a spoiled temper from having been saddled with the unsavory chore of collecting Sarmatians, kept them at an impossible pace. They rode from sunup to sundown, sometimes straight through the night. Lancelot had a new appreciation for the vast expanses of his homeland. Never before had he ventured past his small piece of the world. To distract himself from the long hours, blistering saddle sores, and freezing temperatures, Lancelot basked in the land. He devoured as much of Sarmatia as he could. His father's land. His land. In this quiet respect, he uttered a slow farewell, regretting that he'd never seen all of his country until now.

Lamorak tugged at Lancelot's ankle, jarring him from the melancholy that so often settled around him. Reluctantly, he peered down at his red- haired companions. A twinge of pity surged through him. Lamorak's shoeless feet were wrapped in torn layers of cloth to keep from turning black from the cold. He'd brought nothing with him for their journey, for he owned nothing to begin with. Yet he carried a constant smile.

"I heard the soldiers talking last night," Lamorak whispered conspiratorially. He loved a good bit of gossip and mischief, but Lancelot was content to know nothing of the Romans. He marched when they said march. He did not need to ask why or where.

"They were talking about some bloke, Artorius Castus."

"Fancy name," Lancelot said offhandedly, only half-listening. Lamorak elbowed him in the shin and ducked quickly from the retaliatory kick Lancelot aimed at his head.

"I think he's to be our commander." A faint spark of interest kindled in Lancelot. He glanced surreptitiously at Commander Cletes at the head of the line, his polished armor glinting in the cold daylight.

"Do you think he's going to be like lizard brain up there?" Lamorak asked, following Lancelot's fleeting look.

"I don't know."

"Well, I sure as hell hope not. Of course aren't all Romans pompous dung hills?"

"I don't know, Lamorak." Lancelot grated his teeth together. He was too tired to contemplate their commander-to-be. Artorius Castus, as Lamorak had called him. The name was unpleasant in his mind. Did all Romans have such sharp and intimidating titles?

"My pa, gods rest his drunken soul, said he never did a Roman that didn't walk like he had a club shoved up his arse," Lamorak continued. He and Lancelot both turned to look at the lone soldier walking at the end of the caravan to make sure none of the stragglers tried to make a break for it. Lamorak squinted and cocked his head to the side. The soldier lifted his hand in a small wave.

"I guess he doesn't walk too funny."

"More like rather large stick up the bum than a club, eh?" Lancelot suggested. It was the first light-hearted remark he'd made in weeks. Lamorak's rambunctious peal of laughter clashed against the solemn silence. Lancelot looked forward again, but the ghost of a grin passed over his cold lips.

He happened to like the soldier at the rear. His name was Cassiel and he was the youngest of the Romans. Cassiel wasn't as harsh as the others, but Lancelot suspected that was due to his freshness. In a few years, after more battled and bloodshed, he probably wouldn't be as jovial. As it was, Cassiel was kind to the boys. He pitied them, even though his fellow Romans sneered at his soft heart.

Especially Amphion; the dark haired soldier with a face like a hawk. Lancelot knew little about him, other than that he sniffed like a dog at Commander Cletes' feet in the hopes of being thrown a bone of favor. To impress the callous commander, Amphion treated the Sarmatian boys with absolute cruelty. Whereas the other soldiers were satisfied to ignore their cargo, Amphion went out of his way to punish them. Galahad was his favorite prey. He watched the boy with beady eyes, openly disgusted by the lad's weakness.

After another hour of marching, Lamorak could hardly make his feet move. His weary bones ground together. He was nearly starved and Lancelot knew he would collapse soon. Amphion had already begun to circle the red-head. His mouth practically watered for the chance to humiliate one of the boys. A surge of bitterness swept through Lancelot. Driven more by the need to spurn the loathsome soldier than compassion, he clambered off of his horse and joined Lamorak on the ground.

He gestured to the empty saddle. Although he despised leaving the safety Majid provided, Lancelot swallowed his selfish pride. The disappointment that darkened Amphion's face was a worthy reward. Lancelot helped Lamorak adjust in the saddle and placed his bare feet through the stirrups. It was clear the boy had never ridden a horse before. A flush of excitement spread across his sallow cheeks and it nearly warmed Lancelot's chill heart.

Lamorak released a loud, raucous whoop of joy that startled Majid. Amphion trotted past them, spitting at Lancelot's feet on his way.

"Ain't he just a field of daisies?" Bors snorted from behind them. Dagonet, though keeping his characteristic silence, frowned as he nudged his friend in the ribs. It wouldn't do any of them any good for a fight to break out. They all knew who would come out the worse for wear.

"If only he smelled as sweet," Lamorak called over his shoulder, with a wide grin. None of them emitted a pleasurable odor to be sure. Nothing could dampen Lamorak's spirits. Lancelot shook his head in exasperation. He'd never understand the boy's resilient humor. They were spit upon and the fiery lad continued to jest. Though it was irksome to many of the others, who would be content to brood in silence, Lamorak's joviality was secretly welcomed by them all.

Even Lancelot. He kept as firm hand on Majid's flank and occasionally reprimanded Lamorak for his incessant shifting. The boys fell into the heavy silence that often pervaded their ranks. They did not know where they were going or when they would reach the next village. They moved blindly and in these moments, when not even Lamorak uttered a joke or Bors refrained from bellowing a crude remark, they all drifted to different places and times.

Lancelot returned home. He was painfully aware of the light weight of a wooden sparrow wrapped carefully in the leather pouch at his waist. It was Laleh and his parents that kept him from the others. In his heart, he mourned. They might as well be dead.

Each of them handled their torments differently. Gawain clucked about like a mother hen, distracting himself by caring for others. Percival and Lionel relied on one another. Tristan did his best to forget, though it was obvious he was failing to do so. As for Lancelot, he tried to remain apathetic of past and present. He did not summon memories of his loved ones, nor did he try to lock them out.

_I'm coming with you_, Laleh had said. She was true to her word. _I am Sarmatian, _he told himself. _I will make my people proud. _Yet he felt as though time was moving in the wrong direction. Instead of growing older, he became younger.

Lamorak fetched a stale loaf of bread from his pocket and broke it into two pieces. He passed one down to Lancelot. It was a simple gesture. His warm eyes seemed to be saying, 'If I eat, then so do you.' Lancelot took his share. The sun had begun to set and Commander Cletes had shown no sign of stopping. They nibbled their pitiful rations companionably.

Nine Sarmatian sons. Someday they would be heroes, legends, and martyrs. But for now, they were just lonely boys marching and sharing loaves of bread. Lancelot could almost hear the wooden sparrow chirping.

* * *

Gawain knelt before Lamorak with a concerned scowl as he inspected the lad's torn feet. They were camped briefly at the edge of another village. Lancelot stood nearby, scanning the horizon for the Romans return. He knew another unfortunate lad would soon join their miserable ranks. All of the boys buzzed with mingled anticipation and dread. It was the same feeling at every stop, as they waited to meet their new brother in arms.

"Bloody git, don't go poking at it!" Lamorak's shrill cry of pain jarred Lancelot from his meandering thoughts. Gawain had just popped a particularly nasty blister on Lamorak's heel. A foul smelling mixture of pus and blood oozed forth.

"Look on the bright side," Percival chirped, crouching beside Gawain to examine his fellow's wounds. "If you lose the foot, perhaps they'll send you back home." Lionel elbowed his brother roughly for his insensitivity, but Lamorak's horrified expression had little do to with the thought of becoming a cripple.

"I can't go back there!" he protested. "Foot or no foot, I'm getting out of this wasteland." Lancelot bristled at the insult to their homeland, and he wasn't the only one. Galahad, who was sitting close to Gawain with his knees tucked into his chest, scowled at the red-headed boy with murder in his eyes.

"How can you say that?" Galahad snapped. It was difficult to take him seriously when his voice still sounded like that of a five year old girl's.

"How? Well, I start by opening my mouth and-"

"Ah, that's where you make the mistake, boy." They all turned, startled like frightened rabbits, to see Cassiel standing at ease behind their congregation. The young soldier dropped a pair of Roman sandals beside Lamorak with a half smile, which none of them returned. In fact, the hostility in the hair sizzled. Bors was the first to speak. He glared at the sandals disdainfully, as though they had insulted him.

"We don't need your pity," he growled.

"Speak for yourself!" Lamorak cried. "If it keeps my toes from falling off!"

"It is not pity, but kindness," Cassiel said coolly. He did not cower under their glares. "You would do well to learn the difference." His soft chastisement left Bors in a state of stony speechlessness.

Cassiel nudged the sandals closer to Lamorak. The young boy scooped them into his arms greedily. He stroked the stiff leather and pricked his finger against a point of the iron hobnails attached to the soles. A bead of blood welled crimson against his starched skin. Cassiel's armor creaked as he turned to depart.

Lancelot caught the man's placid gaze before quickly casting his eyes away. The steady trot of Roman steeds, which had become so familiar to the boys, alerted them to the return of the retrieval party. Lancelot could vaguely make out two small figures amidst the Romans. A woman's mournful cries carried to them on a bitter wind. Cassiel winced. He hadn't grown accustomed to it, the sound. He hadn't become a soldier to kidnap young boys.

"Wear the sandals," Cassiel ordered. "We set out soon." And with that he left to join the other soldiers.

"Perhaps not all of them are devils," Dagonet murmurs as he bent to help Gawain wrap Lamorak's feet. None of them argued with him, for they were to weary, but neither did any of them agree. Their trust was not to be won over by gifts and sympathetic smiles. The price was much higher than that.

Lamorak laced his sandals and stood. Together, they waited to meet the two new unfortunate captives.

* * *

Ostia Antica, Rome

Elias paced the deck of _The Apollo_. A light drizzle was falling. In the dim, misty light of swinging lanterns that lined the docks, he watched the rain hit the water and spread in ripples. He gripped the rail so tightly that the skin broke across his pale knuckles. Doubt and worry plagued his mind.

_I should not have left her alone,_ he thought. His daughter was gone; lost in the labyrinthine city. He had planned to return before nightfall, but it had been difficult finding supplies. The port city had been plagued with a difficult year of plague and failed crops, leaving little to spare for voyagers passing through. After haggling for hours, Elias finally decided it was time to return to the ship and set sail for Carthage. He knew their next destination would please Cailey.

Instead of being greeted by her bright smile, Elias had found the dock abandoned. He'd searched everywhere. Each passing moment darkened his hopes. How could he find his little daughter in such a mess? Surely it was near impossible, but he would search forever, until he found her. His throat rasped as he called her name once more.

Elias tried to keep all of the terrible possibilities at bay, but he knew all too well what happened at night. Men were leeches waiting to suck the precious innocence from girls such as his daughter. She stood no chance in their claws. How many girls before her had been found in puddles of their own virginal blood? Tonight there would be at least a dozen such little ones. Come morning, their fragile bodies would be swept away and forgotten. Many of them had not families to mourn them, but Elias could not bear to lose his only child.

He slipped a dagger into his belt before leaping over the side of _The Apollo. _However, he only made it to the edge of the swaying dock before a scrawny figure came tumbling into the pools of lantern light. For an instant, Elias thought the slender creature was his daughter. The illusion shattered when the light caught the child's face; masked in dirt.

Wicek collapsed upon reaching the docks. Fire coursed through his left side where the imprint of Alberic's boot could still be seen. The night funneled before him. His lungs burned as a ragged coughs wracked his thin body and blood spewed past his trembling lips. The garish stains of it were washed away by the rain, as Wicek feared he soon would be as well.

Elias crouched before the beaten boy and laid a cool hand against his feverish brow. Wicek swatted weakly at the man's touch.

"Be still, boy. I am you friend."

Friend? The word was strange and unheard of. Wicek curled into himself and glowered at the man, but then recognition struck him. Where had he seen this stranger before? In the face of the little girl. Wicek loathed himself for the tears of shame that rushed to his eyes. He could still taste blood in his mouth and he wished more than anything that he would choke upon it.

"Who has done this do you, child?" Elias asked softly. Wicek shook his head furiously. He clutched a fistful of Elias' tunic. Cailey's father was unnerved by the intensity in the boy's sunken eyes. He was too old for his age. Those eyes had seen too much.

"He's taken her," Wicek whispered. "Into the dark. No one comes out."

"Taken who?" Elias struggled to decode the boy's cryptic garble.

"She's gone and there's no coming back." Panic boiled Elias' blood. He hardly needed to hear her name to know who was gone, yet he grabbed the boy roughly and pressed his face close to the urchin's.

"Tell me who is gone," Elias pleaded. Wicek peered over the man's shoulder into the never ending ocean.

"Cailey," he whispered to the water. Elias heart stopped. He shook the boy again.

"Where?" he demanded.

"The dark." Wicek was slipping away. His body slumped against Elias and his eyelashes fluttered.

"Where?" Elias repeated as he slapped the boy's bruised cheeks. Gathering all of his strength, Wicek raised his hand and pointed back to the shadowy alley where he had watched her disappear. Then his hand fell and his eyes closed.

Elias laid the boy down gently on the splintered dock. Although it pained him to leave the poor creature there to bleed to death, he was not willing to sacrifice his daughter's life to save the boy. He kissed Wicek's forehead and whispered a soft blessing, asking the gods to protect him, before sprinting into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the movie King Arthur, nor do I own the original legend.

**Author's Note:** This becomes graphic. Read, review, enjoy.

* * *

"_I know how men in exile feed on dreams of hope."_

_-Aeschylus_

Sarmatia

Lancelot woke, unable to breathe or to remember where he was. The ground was hard and cold beneath him. He opened his eyes to find Lamorak nestled into his side. For a moment, he'd thought the boy was Laleh, and then he recalled that she was far away. He fished for the wooden sparrow he kept in his pocket, to make sure it was still there. He could feel the roughly hewn ripple of wings.

They were close to the sea. Lancelot had never been there before, but he knew that the tang in the air could only be from the ocean. His father had told him stories; terrible and great stories of men thrown overboard and storms that lasted for days and waters that stretched to the sunrise. It wasn't quite morning yet, though the stars had settled elsewhere. It was the rare, seldom viewed time just before dawn, when the sky was nothing but black.

The Romans had stopped them a few hours ago. A new village lay at the bottom of the hill they'd chosen to camp atop. Most of the soldiers had gone to collect the next batch of boys. How many would there be this time? Lancelot knew they would be back soon. He could see Cassiel circling the camp. He could run. He could slip away during this dark time, but it was too cold and his home was too far. Besides, the Romans would find him. Or worse, they would burn his village out of sheer spite.

Lancelot sighed. He tried not to think about escape. It brought no good. Instead, he rolled over, away from Lamorak's sour breath, and tried to sleep. There was no knowing when they would stop to rest again. The soldiers had pushed them harder the past few days, anxious to return home. Every bone in Lancelot's body ached. He could hear them grinding together. He'd lost too much weight, but none of the boys suffered more than Galahad. Every time they were given rations, Gawain gave more than half his share to the younger boy. They all tried to help where they could, even though none of them had much to give. Lancelot had taken to sharing Majid with Lamorak and Urry, the newest and youngest member of their band. His feet were more blisters than skin, but he didn't complain. All they had now was each other. Besides, it was what his father would have wanted him to do.

"Lancelot? Are you awake?" He had just been about to drift back to sleep, when Urry's voice reached him. Reluctantly he opened his eyes to see the young boy, just ten summers old, kneeling beside him. Urry's pale eyes were ghoulish in the dark. He was a head shorter than Galahad and even thinner. The Romans had been reluctant to take him. He was too young, but there had been no one else. Urry explained that most of the other boys had died from a terrible, unknown disease that past winter. It was the same disease that had claimed his three older brothers and his father.

"What d'ya want?" Lancelot muttered sleepily.

"I couldn't sleep and I was thinking…I've been wondering…"

"What?" Lancelot tried to be patient with the boy. He didn't talk to many of the others, but Lancelot admired him. He was so young, yet so much braver than most of them. When he'd been taken, he hadn't shed a tear and he hadn't done so since he'd joined them. Sometimes while they were settled around the dying fire, unable to sleep, Urry would repeat the stories his mother had told him. They were beautiful tales with happy endings, which none of the boys truly believed in, but they enjoyed hearing them all the same.

"Do you think my mother will be alright without me?" Urry blurted. It was an unexpected query. "She doesn't have anyone else. I've been thinking about who will fetch the firewood and who will hunt? She isn't very good with a bow and arrow. She doesn't like killing at all. Papa always had to skin and pluck the animals. Then I did. It just made her so sick. What will she do now?"

Lancelot sat up. He wasn't sure what to say and he felt guilty. This boy, hardly more than a baby, was worried about how his mother would survive without him, while Lancelot hadn't given any of that much thought. He was too encased in his own pain to think about how much his parents and Laleh must be suffering. Urry was a selfless creature. He reminded Lancelot of Laleh in that way.

"I'm sure your mother will be fine. The other villagers will help her, won't they?"

"I suppose," Urry said, though he didn't appear very convinced. He peered down to where the village lay hidden in the shadows at the base of the hill. "She can't even kill a rat, but I can. I can kill birds and snakes." He turned his ghoulish eyes back to Lancelot. "But I don't know about people."

"We'll do what we have to." It was a cold thing to say, but Lancelot could think of nothing else. It was the truth; plain and simple. He tried not to think of that either; the fact that someday he would be expected to kill, the fact that the swords his father had given him weren't for cutting wood or hunting.

"Do you think my mother will hate me when I go home?" Urry's voice trembled. It was just a tiny thread of fear in all of the darkness. Lancelot squeezed his shoulder and gently pushed him to the ground. He slid his cloak under the boy's head.

"How could she hate you? Mothers can never hate their children, no matter what they do. Now go to sleep."

"I just hope she'll be alright," Urry said through a yawn. "She doesn't…she doesn't have anyone anymore." Then he closed his eyes.

Lancelot lay down on the hard ground again, yearning for the hay-stuffed mat he used to share with Laleh. He felt Lamorak on one side of him and Urry on the other, both of them breathing deeply, in and out. He focused on that and nothing else. He focused on them and not the cold or the morning that he never wanted to see. Urry's mother may have no one, but he had them. Lancelot had to reconcile with the truth that these boys were his family now. His mother, his father, and Laleh were gone.

Lancelot closed his eyes again. Moments later they re-opened when the screams rose.

* * *

Bedivere stood outside of the mead hall. He'd left to escape the sounds of celebration inside, but they followed him into the night. What was there to celebrate? The Romans were coming. He could see their torches on the hill. All day the village had been in an uproar, a panic, since the troops had been sighted that morning. All day Bedivere had been locked in council, at his father's side, listening to old men bicker about what to do. Old men who had forgotten how to fight. Old men who had made decisions to protect their pride and not the lives of the villagers. Old men who had chosen war. Mordred remembered his father's words clearly.

"They will take no more of our sons! We will stand against the foreign demons and drive them from our soil once and for all! We will fight!" The words turned sour in Bedivere's mind. If only it were so simple. If only he could think and feel as the others did, celebrating and confident, singing songs of glory and valor. Yet he had never succumbed to false hope.

Bedivere was a rational man. Nearing his nineteenth year, he was wise beyond his age. The villagers teased their prince. They thought him dull, nothing like his younger brother, whom they all adored for his charming smile. No, Bedivere had always remained in the shadows, watching and learning, preparing for the day when he would take the throne and lead the once great Sauromatae tribe. He wasn't handsome like his brother, with his hooked nose, heavy, dark brow, and crooked shoulders. He wasn't pleasant in conversation. He wasn't loved, but he loved his people more than anything else, and for that reason he resented the decision that his father and the council of elders had made, because he knew they would fail.

The Romans would slaughter them. What chance did they have with farm tools against swords, and children and old men against hardened soldiers? He could see it all unfolding; the men cut down, the women and children left starving and defenseless, the village in ashes. Bedivere knew, but there was nothing he could do. His father's word was final. He had already tried to reason with the aging king in private to no success. King Morad had simply clasped his oldest son's shoulder and said, "I will not lose my sons."

Bedivere would gladly have gone with the Romans if it meant the village would be left unharmed. As he stood separated from the rest, he wondered if he should leave now. He wondered if he should give himself over to the Romans and plead they pass the others by. He could pack his bag and slip into the dark while the others celebrated.

Bedivere was just about to leave and carry out his plan, when the door to the mead hall swung open and his brother tumbled outside with a pretty girl tucked under his arm. The two of them stopped when they saw Bedivere brooding in the shadows. Kay flashed a sloppy smile, while his companion giggled into a bout of hiccups. Bedivere recognized the girl. He thought her name was Minu and he knew for certain her father wouldn't be pleased if he knew she was sneaking away with Kay into the woods for a late tryst.

"Brother!" Kay cheered, lifting his mug in a salute. "The party is inside, don't you know?" Bedivere's only reply was to frown. Minu, suddenly self-conscious, slipped out from Kay's arm. She gazed apprehensively at Bedivere through dark lashes. She really was very pretty. Bedivere pitied her. He knew his brother's ways with women. Kay had broken half the hearts of the village girls.

"Girl, won't your parents be looking for you?" Bedivere asked gruffly. Minu nodded her head.

"I should go back inside," she murmured. "Goodnight." Minu stood on her tip toes to kiss Kay's cheek chastely, before retreating to the warmth and commotion of the mead hall. Kay watched her leave and then turned to his brother with a shrug.

"Now I'll have to find another," he grumbled into his ale.

"I'm sure you'll have no trouble." Bedivere couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice and Kay, even slightly drunk, noticed.

"Oh, don't tell me you've been out here pouting all night when there are beautiful women inside ready to throw themselves at tomorrow's heroes?"

"Heroes?" Bedivere sneered. "More like corpses."

"Must you always be so dark?"

"I only speak the truth."

The two brothers fell silent, each watching the faint Roman torches with different thoughts. Kay sipped from his mug, anxious to return to the celebration and a warm woman to hold, while Bedivere felt his courage slipping away. He couldn't go to the Romans alone. It probably wouldn't do much good regardless. The Romans wouldn't be satisfied until they had destroyed everything, until they broke the Sarmatians completely and ground them into dust beneath their war boots.

"Do you really think we have no chance?" Kay asked quietly. He looked to his older brother for a shred of hope and found nothing. Bedivere's scowl only deepened.

"Would you have us remain their slaves forever?" Kay hissed, his temper flaring. "Would you have us stay their dogs?"

"Better slaves and dogs than dead." And Bedivere walked away from his brother and the false hopes of the others. He left to be alone in his dread for the battle to come, despite how very much he wished he could be like his brother for just once. He wished he could have hope. He wished he could believe that freedom was possible.

Kay watched Bedivere disappear into the dark. Then he chugged the rest of his mug before returning to the celebration, in search of a woman and another drink to lighten his mind. He quickly found Minu again. Tomorrow they would fight. Tonight, Kay was content to lose himself in pleasure. Who knew when the chance would come again?

* * *

Ostia Antica, Rome

The girl wouldn't stop screaming, so although Alberic hated to mar her pretty face, he brought his ringed fist hard against her cheek. Cailey felt as though she'd been struck by an iron club. She fell to the ground, whimpering, and pulled her knees into her chest. She wanted to be small, so small no one could see her. She wanted to be back on _The Apollo_, safe in her netted bed, with her papa reading stories, but no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes closed, she couldn't take herself there. She could still taste the tang of blood and dirt in her mouth. She could feel the man's hands on her skin as he lifted her up.

"Be a good girl now," Alberic growled against her bruised cheek. His whiskers scratched her skin. The smell of his stale breath made her sick. Cailey went limp in his hands. Fighting was no good. She was too weak, too alone.

Alberic pushed the child to her knees and began to unlace his breeches with an unsteady hand, while he cupped the other around Cailey's face. He pried her soft lips open with his dirty fingers. Cailey hated the taste of his sour sweat. She gagged, but it only made the man laugh.

"You're almost too pretty to kill," Alberic rasped. His breath came in short gasps as his breeches fell around his ankles. He bent closer to Cailey and buried his face in her lovely curls, taking in the scent of salt water and innocence. "Maybe I'll keep you," he murmured.

The thought sent chills down Cailey's spine. She thought of the slaves Wicek had mentioned earlier. Was she to become one of them? Suddenly it seemed better to die. She prayed to the gods that he would kill her. At least then she could see the sea again in the afterlife. Oh, if only she could hear the sea one last time. If only she could feel it drifting beneath her.

Alberic stood up straight and pulled aside his linen under-cloth. Cailey averted her eyes from his exposure. The sickness was rising within her, but Alberic curled his hand at the back of her head and pulled her against him. He moaned when he felt her skin brush against his throbbing arousal.

"Open your mouth, girl," he ordered. Cailey pressed her lips together tighter, so hard her teeth drew blood, but Alberic impatiently pried them apart. She closed her eyes instead as he directed himself into her mouth. Alberic pushed himself into her and growled. She was warm and slick inside. He slammed her head towards him and felt the girl gag. He felt her hot tears.

"That's right, pretty one," he gasped. "That's a good girl." Cailey couldn't breathe. She clawed wildly at the man, but he was too strong. His awful voice sounded as though it was coming from very far away. She wished she couldn't hear him at all above the blood pounding in her own ears. Her knees burned where they were scraped in the dirt. Her neck ached from the way he jerked it back and forth. Worst of all was the feel of him inside of her mouth. She could feel him pulsing against her tongue, like a living beast with a mind of its own. She couldn't keep from gagging as the bile in her stomach rose.

Alberic threw back his head and rammed into the girl's small mouth one last time before succumbing to his pleasure. His burning seed shot into her. It was too much for Cailey. It tasted of rotten fish and she could no longer contain the sick. Alberic leapt away furiously as she vomited. On hands and knees, her small body shook as everything spilled out of her.

"You cunt!" Alberic roared, looking at his soiled sandals. He gave Cailey a sharp kick in the stomach and the girl collapsed. Shivering, tears still streaming down her cheeks and sick on the front of her tunic, Cailey looked up at the man. Her vision was hazy, but she saw the glint of silver as he pulled a knife from his belt, and relief overwhelmed her. He was going to kill her. It was over. All of it was over.

Alberic crouched down and carefully lifted up the child's head, avoiding the rancid pool of sick around her. He gripped the knife in his hand. She was worthless. He wanted nothing more to do with her now. He would find another girl that could contain the contents of her stomach. Alberic held the knife to her pale throat, but a noise from the dark made him hesitate. He turned to look behind him, but never saw the source of the noise. He only felt pain and then the world was dark.

Cailey howled when a shadowy figure appeared and dug his dagger deep into Alberic's eyes. She scuttled against the wall and shoved her fist into her mouth as the shadow man drug Alberic away from her. Alberic flailed blindly. He screamed until the shadowy man sliced his throat. Blood bubbled between Alberic's fingers as he clutched desperately at the fatal wound. Gurgling sounds escaped his lips until he fell limp, never to move again.

The shadowy figure kicked the dead man out of the way and moved to Cailey. She whimpered and tried to scoot further away from the man and the bloodied dagger he still clutched in his hand.

"Cailey," the man whispered softly. And she recognized his voice instantly. Elias let his dagger clatter to the ground to catch his daughter safely in his arms. He held her tightly, determined never to let go again.

"Papa," Cailey sobbed. "Papa."

"Hush now," Elias whispered, cradling her in his arms like she was an infant. "You're safe. I'm here."

And he carried her back to the docks, leaving his dagger and the dead man behind. He carried his daughter back to _The Apollo_, silent tears streaming down his face, and made a quiet promise to himself to never let go of her again.


End file.
